Monopoly
by Garmonbozia
Summary: When the bad get bored, the bored play Monopoly. This, however, is a slightly modified version of the game. The Top Hat is a Master Blackmailer. You have to buy the use of Wheelbarrow to move the body after you've killed someone. You don't buy properties at Fleet Street, you buy a journalist. Jim Moriarty has never done anything by halves.
1. Pass Go

Milverton is in a cab. He's on his way from Mayfair all the way down to the Old Kent Road of all places. There, he'll collect the pitiful sum of two-hundred pounds (barely covering the taxi fare).

Along the way his phone rings. This, officially, is the moment when he passes Go.

The irony will not be lost on him, later on.

"Hello?"

"Have you topped yourself yet, Charlie?"

He winces, shuts his eyes. Somebody must have told Jim about his recent run of hard luck. "I'm not in the mood for this."

"I know you're not," comes the Irish grin. "Hard to blame you. Moran and Dani told me all about that nasty big Scandanavian writing you out. Poor Charlie, not allowed to join in any reindeer games anymore." That's it. Milverton's going back to America. His bridges are burnt in New York, but there are other places. Better places. Atlantic City, perhaps. No; he'll try Florida again. Get back to the heat, out of this miserable rain. "So, y'know how you're depressed and we're all bored as hell? Come on over. There's a game here we'd love to have you for."

Far away, from over Moriarty's shoulder, he hears the bitch Mies cry out, "Not all of us loving it."

"-Dani, shut up."

"It's _our_ thing, Jim."

"Look, he's either going to leave the country or shoot himself; it's this _one_ time and-"

Over the sound of Moran getting in between them, Milverton says, "Oh, it'll annoy her, will it? Driver! Change of plan."

* * *

This, Milverton thinks, had better be worth it. Given his recent misfortunes, his finances are on decidedly unsteady ground, and that taxi just became much more expensive than he'd intended. But he's here now. Sighs. Better make the most of it. Better be bloody worth it.

Mies meets him at the door. Instantly, he knows that something about this is different. This couldn't be work of any sort; she's wearing flat shoes. Dressed for comfort, rather than style. "Afternoon, Charlie. What kept you?"

_Just out_, he thinks at her, _trying to salvage the last of my business, scrape up a plane ticket and a start-up stake. Talked to a man about selling the Jag, that sort of thing, looking over my shoulder for police and journalists the entire time now that that's what Magnusson's threatening_. "I had to come up from town."

Mildly, looking ever-so-very-concerned for his welfare (and impending welfare-state cheques), "You should've called for a lift."

Moran steps into the hall behind her. Picks up a strand of her hair and yanks her away out of the door. Milverton finally gets to step inside, off the cold doorstep where he was starting to feel decidedly like a beggar. "Long day, mate?" One of those long, muscular arms slings itself around Milverton's shoulders. This, in itself, is a very strange thing, and he looks around to the hanging hand only to see something stranger yet; Moran's first two fingers are dropping a folded slip of paper into his breast pocket. Then, as if nothing ever happened, Moran slaps him on the back. "C'mon. Kettle's on for coffee. You'll want one."

In the kitchen, Moran pointedly keeps his back turned. Behind it, Milverton fishes out the note and unfolds it. It reads, rather bizarrely, _You'll want control of the Top Hat, the Race Car and the little train engine thing. Best I can do for you_.

It is just then that Mies decides to join them. She stops midstride when she sees him reading. Points at Milverton, but addresses Moran, "What are you telling him? Why is he getting help?"

Moran turns, looking caught and guilty and protesting his innocence in broken, stammering fragments. Deliberately patronizing in order to distract her, Milverton coos, "Don't be _paranoid_, dear. It's a phone number. I was just putting it away safe, so that I can give you my jacket to go and hang up somewhere, there's a good girl."

This approach backfires, somewhat. She gives him an easy smile and says, "Of course, Charlie," and holds out her hand to accept it. Quite apart from the fact he doesn't _want_ to give his jacket to a thief, he can't fathom why she's being so nice about it. Still, he talked himself into this; he shrugs it off and passes it over.

It's all starting to feel very strange. Milverton hasn't the stomach for mysteries anymore. The last mystery he felt creeping up on him turned out to be his ruin. "Where's Jim?" he sighs, looking for one straight answer.

"Just finishing setting up." Down the hall, a door opens and closes, "That'll be him now." He stops in the hallway and gives something to Mies, for which she thanks him. Then wanders on down to them.

If Milverton wasn't worried before, he is now. Those are Rich Brooke's clothes, not Jim Moriarty's. Whatever he's feeling must show on his face, because the greeting he gets is a laugh, "I know, I'm a tramp. But Christ knows how long we'll be here for, and this is quite comfortable."

Cautiously, "_How long we'll be here for_?"

"Oh, it runs until it's finished. What was the longest one, Seb?"

"All three of us? Six days. Dani says you and her did nine while I was in Marrakech."

Jim nods wisely, "And very nearly slaughtered each other over it." Yet this seems to be a fond memory, and distracts him for a wistful moment. Then he feels Milverton staring at the three small slips in his hand. They appear to be cards, a little smaller than playing cards, wrapped in plain brown paper. The wrappers have been put to this purpose before; the creases are soft and white. Jim remembers himself and holds them out in a fan, "Oh, here. Pick one. And know what it is and then hide it somewhere until it's useful to you."

_Finally_! Finally, one of them has said something that Milverton understands. Here is a piece of leverage, please be smart about it. _Wonderful_. Oh, it's like coming home, hearing Jim say that. He takes the card on the left and shields it with his hand while he pulls off the paper, expecting it to have something written on it; an account number, perhaps, or the contact details of a politician's mistress or…

…_Pay a £10 Fine or Take a Chance_.

He is beginning to suspect what might be happening. He is beginning to suspect it might all be some elaborate joke at his expense. He is _beginning to suspect_ they might have money on whether or not he kills himself after the Magnusson debacle, and may be trying to drive him to it. Or they're in league with the Norse prick that has so recently slipped in, like a doppelganger, and taken over every part of Charlie's life that actually meant something to him.

But now who's being paranoid? And from the absolute seriousness with which Moran and Moriarty split and study the remaining cards, well… he's not sure Moran's that good an actor.

"Don't look so worried," Moriarty laughs, pushing the card into the back pocket of his jeans. "Where'd Dani get to, so we can start?"

"No idea. She only went to hang up Charlie's jacket, but she's been gone-"

Moriarty leans out the door and bellows down the hall, "Get your nose out of that folder, y'snooping trollop!"

"_Damn_!" echoes back to him.

"Trust no one, Charlie boy," he grimaces. "You'll pick up the rules as we go along, but there's one to start you off – trust fecking _no_ _one_."

Moran concurs. "It gets pretty vicious. Just watch yourself." He says this on his way out of the room. Passing out coffees, carrying Mies' until he meets her standing sullen and defeated in the hall.

"You'd do the same," she hisses when Moriarty glares at her. "If you didn't already know everything in there, you'd do the same."

"You know most of it," he chides, "Don't be so greedy."

The folder they're talking about is sitting on the coffee table in the living room. A standard black ring binder, splayed open to show the pages and pages of neat, dark writing inside, all of them inside colour-coded plastic pockets. They go brown, to blue, to pink, to orange and so forth, mildly familiar and bringing up the stench of Christmases and children's homes and the elderly aunts of smiling foster parents. Milverton shakes all that off.

The folder is the only thing that really _looks_ out of place. The rest is self-explanatory. The little silver tokens are set out in a row. The two stacks of cards are in place. The bank is made-up and ready and rainbow-bright. The board itself is very old, starting to split in half along the centre fold, showing its cardboard innards. It has been annotated in black felt tip. But it is still recognizably…

"Monopoly. That's the great big plan, is it? That's what can take six to nine days?"

Moriarty smiles, letting his derision slide. Tosses his head and admits, "It is… and it isn't."

"Sort of Monopoly _Extra_," Mies adds.

"Have a bit of faith, Charlie boy," and Moran slaps his back again, putting him down into an armchair. "We wouldn't have called if we didn't think you'd be good at it."

"Not like you've got anything else on, this week."

"Dani, you said you were going to be nice."

They mutter at each other about who's nice and who's a prick and what being nice has to do with anything when there's a prick about who it's obviously very difficult to be nice to. And in behind all of this, Moriarty takes a seat behind the bank, and leans over. "Charlie, if you want to walk out, be my guest."

That sounds quite sensible, actually; walking out on this madness sounds like a very bright idea indeed. But as much as he hates to admit it, the bitch is right. What has he got left to lose? And if nothing else it will keep him here, away from Fleet Street and Pentonville Road, for a day or so.

Alright. Fine.

"How do we start this?"

* * *

[A/N – You're laughing now, but just you wait; all of y'all are going to want one of Jim's doctored Monopoly sets. I'ma licence it and make a _mint_, you see if I don't.

Inspired in part by the Holmes boys and their unique approach to Operation and the Baker Street Cluedo Incident. Inspired _massively_ by a piece of art that can be found at the tumblr of snarkyswordswoman. Please find it and give a lot of love. I promise this fic will go on and be hiliarious, and hiliariously believable, and that gorgeous picture was the source.

Much love and keep laughing,

Sal.]


	2. Chance

There are twelve tokens next to the board. A regular set has only eight, but that wasn't interesting enough. It wasn't _realistic_ enough. Anyway, there weren't enough Chance cards, and the board of the old set fell apart.

Well… they say _fell apart_. It might have been torn in the midst of an argument. Well, a fight. And the pieces of it _might_ have been burned in the living room grate, while the three original players sat around tending their scratches and bruises and swearing they would never, ever do this again. But that was a few games ago. They've never allowed themselves to get so bad since that. Certainly no injuries.

_Well_…

There's a _rumour_, just a whisper, that the 9-Day Event was won only by technical knockout. But it's only a rumour and neither of the parties involved will discuss, or even say who would have won that way. But when Moran returned from Marrakech there was a fine bronze statuette missing from the fireplace.

Milverton has been told none of this. No sense scaring him off. Anyway, maybe he'll be a calming influence on them.

But Moran's looking at Mies, and Mies is glaring at Milverton, and it's hard to believe that these proceedings might manage to remain calm. Jim sees this too, but he's revelling, and Moran makes his morose prediction as softly and unnoticed as Cassandra, "We're going to eat each other alive…"

"Did you say something?"

"Nah, Dani love. Right! Are we playing this game or what? Where's the envelopes?"

Naturally, Jim has them. Four small white envelopes, totally plain. In the interests of fairness, he holds them only by the corners, so he won't know what's inside each of them. In a regular game, every player receives the same money, the same start-up stake. That, of course, isn't like life at all. That was the _first_ rule he'd felt the need to alter. That's what started it all. Some stupid Christmas, looking at this stupid game, thinking from that first stupid rule how stupid it all was…

And how clever it could be, with just a little bit of work.

"Ladies first," Mies says, and reaches for one.

Jim pulls them away from her. "_Guests_ first. Here we go, Charlie; find your fortunes."

Poor Charlie. He still feels this is all a touch childish. There are probably other things he could be doing. Could be picking up a couple of quick jobs, finding his real fortunes. Poor Charlie hasn't a clue, just yet.

He picks an envelope. The moment his hand takes the slack, he can feel this one is heavy. Whatever his mood, he can smile to think he's made a good choice. He can smile when Moran mutters darkly, _Bastard_. That _has_ to be a good sign. He opens it and finds, in five- and two-hundred pound notes, a total of £4000. Moran mutters again, _Bastard_…

"Good for you," Mies smiles, "This time you don't have to _pretend_ you're a Lord."

While they smirk at each other, Moran finds £800 and doesn't seem overly upset. Which leaves Jim and Danielle and two envelopes. They make each other laugh with fighting over them, and watch them play like idiot children is the closest Charlie's gotten to laughing this week. Maybe it won't be so bad.

"Right," and Mies snatches one, "This is mine."

"Okay. Sure?"

"Yes."

"So this is mine. I'll swap if you want."

"No, I'm happy."

"Okay."

"Okay."

"Open."

"Right." Mies flips the top of the envelope and falls back against the couch, screaming through her teeth. "No! Thirty bloody quid! That's _virtually_ penniless."

Milverton grins over at her. "Well, you were wearing Primark shoes when _I_ met you."

"You _swore_ you'd never tell anyone!"

"Girls, please," Jim cuts in. "Calm yourselves. Dani, you've got first pick on the tokens." She settles, and tucks her unshod feet beneath her where Charlie can't smirk at them. This is a very important decision. This will affect how the whole rest of the game goes for her. And with only _thirty pounds_ in her pocket, not even enough for the bloody Old Kent Road, not enough for Whitechapel (she likes to make Whitechapel her base of operations), she needs to choose wisely. She doesn't need Charlie, and his unwise comments about her past, distracting her.

She eyes all the little pewter symbols. It's not as simple as liking the thimble best, like when she was a little girl. The tokens, in this version of the game, no longer just represent the player on the board. That would be too simple.

Danielle looks up and down the line. Her magpie eye catches on the brightest flash of silver. The newest token in this, or any, version of the game. Perfect. "I'll be having the Cat, thank you."

Now, each token has its own special trait. It galls her to be forced to stop now and explain to Charlie that the Cat is a thief, like her, and how that fits into the game. Surely he ought to learn, like she and Moran had to, in the course of play. It all becomes very self-explanatory. Everything's in the folder anyway. But she explains, and is asked to explain again when he asks what the Top Hat does, and oh, he likes the sound of that. Charlie's having the Top Hat, thank you.

She explains the Cannon, Moran's marker of choice. Explains Jim's preference for the wheelbarrow.

"Oh, don't play to type or anything," Milverton tries to laugh. "What'll you, tarmac a driveway on Mayfair? Tree surgery at Coventry Street? Until you're sent directly to jail, of course."

Moran puts out a hand and just touches his arm, like one trying to prevent a fight outside a pub. "Leave off the anti-Irish shite, Charlie. You'll need the use of that wheelbarrow, and it's his decision whether you get it or not."

Alright, Milverton admits it; this is starting to sound like an interesting variation on the game. "So who goes first?" he asks. Cautiously, since there's bound to be some elaborate means of deciding. Eagerly, since he's getting to like the idea.

Jim, shifting in his seat, "Combined value of trouser pockets."

This is something of a sore point. Charlie still has a state-of-the-art phone, but so does everybody else around the table. The idea of having to count up the contents of his wallet makes him outright shake. It is, sickeningly_, the bitch_ who saves him, when she produces a diamond tennis bracelet from her jeans. "I knew I was coming to this," she shrugs. "And I was in a jewellers' this morning and the pad was just _sitting_ there so…"

She's not so ashamed of herself that she can't glow all over, feeling like she's won.

Then Moran reaches to the back of his jeans and produces his Walther handgun, imported and with a hand-painted custom handle decal. It's also his favourite, and a great deal of money has been invested into keeping it useful and unknown. He puts it on the edge of the table, "I knew I was coming here too."

"Conceded," Jim says. "But I would feel a lot better playing this game _without_ a firearm in the room with us." Moran gets up, going to the safe in the office. He's almost out the door when Jim calls him back. Goes around the room gathering the poker from the fireplace, the cutthroat razor from Mies' handbag, the brass candlesticks, a cut-crystal ashtray and a silver letter opener. "Just in case."


	3. The Angel Islington

Once he's back from clearing the room of all potential murder weapons (and a lamp that Mies was looking rather pointedly at), no one gets in Moran's way. First move. Like chess, or poker, it's a make or break position.

The first part is easy. The dice is thrown to him and, never one to overthink things, Moran simply drops it across the middle of the board. It spins, and falls against the Community Chest.

Five steps takes him to Kings Cross Station. That's when he has to stop and get his head in the game. With a train station, he has three options. He could be cautious, and sit where he is. Hang around the station, sit in Caffe Nero for a bit, wait for his turn to come around again.

He could pay a measly twenty quid to the bank, board a train and ride to any other station on the board.

Or he could buy the station. At £200, it's a quarter of his starting budget. That would leave him a bit short. He might fall foul of taxes or purchases. God knows how much the use of the racing car will cost him if he comes across the coppers. But then he'll collect all fares from the station, and the pay-off if anyone needs to be killed or robbed or kidnapped off his patch. It's an investment, but a risky one so early in the game.

He passes his twenty over to Jim at the bank and rides all the way around the board to Liverpool Street. If he can get past Go again, and not get stung by Super Tax or a bad Chance card, he'll be £180 up on the round.

It's a safe, sensible decision. Jim watches him, nodding. That's pretty typical of Moran. He'll start gambling later on, when he's got a safety net. "Good, dependable boy, is our Sebastian," he says, and Milverton laughs.

Seeing Moran wilt, and knowing his probably her closest ally in the room, Danielle strokes his arm as she takes the dice from him. "Don't listen to him, darling. You're strategic, that's all." Shaking the dice in her hand, her thoughts are wholeheartedly on the upcoming roll, but she goes on comforting him, "It's your work, you see. Can't take chances when you've only got one shot at the kill. Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is step off."

She fastens her new diamond bracelet around her wrist. Money, after all, goes to money. She's heard a lot of very poor people mutter that, and when she started stealing at university she found it to be true. She wears it like a charm and lets it rattle when she casts the dice.

Two. Two sounds small. Two doesn't sound very lucky at all. But it takes her to the Community Chest, and from the first card on the pile.

Reads aloud, triumphantly, "_Gather protection money from local bookies. Collect a tenner from each player. _Pony up, boys."

"Good for you!" Charlie simpers at her. "Doubling your money!"

But she's unfazed. "I've gone from Primark to New Look. Next stop, Top Shop." But her smile is just a façade. Behind it, she can't even see the men handing her the paper slips. Danielle's mind is busy, thinking very _singular_ thoughts. She thinks of the number one and single measures of spirits and diamond solitaires and one, one, one, because one more step around the board will give her her beloved Whitechapel, and now she's got just enough money to buy control of it.

And why Whitechapel? Jim knows. Whitechapel was the first place she ever lived when she came to London after university. Silly girl. She's recreating. Silly, superstitious girl, having done so well for herself in life, thinks she can build it again on the board. She thinks it's _lucky_. Which is always where he gets her. Always. Except for one time she really did get desperately lucky, and one time she ganged up with Moran to kill him off, and that time she came from him with the bronze statuette.

He is distracted from considering his opponents, because Charlie is looking at him. Saying dimly, "What was in your pockets?"

"Oh. Nothing; I got changed before we started. No, I'm a pauper. Fire away, Charlie boy."

While he shakes the dice, "I take it the whole game is still about money, yes? Bankrupt the other players, gain control that way." Milverton is concentrating. Doesn't see them start to smile. By the time the dice clatters down, they're laughing at him. "Or not, apparently."

Drawing moisture from the corner of her eye (drama queen), the bitch breathes out, "Oh, Charles… I expected little more and nothing less."

Jim is kinder. "The money's just a tool. We play for the same thing we're always playing for. Control, mate. We play to run the joint. Four, by the way," and he nods at the dice.

Mies hides a sigh of relief; it takes him past her desired manor.

It takes him straight to the bloody Income Tax. Another pay-out. Maybe play really is going to mirror reality. Maybe he should walk away now before he's humiliated all over again. But as Milverton starts to peel notes from the top of his considerable wad, he hears Moran ask the very unexpected question, "Pay or dodge?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Pay or dodge? You can give Her Majesty's Revenue and Customs their due, or you can cut round it?"

Very tempting. Very tempting indeed. But he's starting to get a feel for how this game works. Warily, "And what's the downside if I choose to do a bit of creative bookkeeping?"

It turns out, there are two ways to hide his hard-earned independent wealth from the Crown. The first is simply to ignore it. Creative bookkeeping, as he called it. But this will earn him the attentions of a police officer. Police are played by coloured tiddlywinks cannibalized from another game. His police officer will start out two squares behind him. Every time Charlie moves, another player will roll the dice on behalf of his devoted detective and it will move too. Should the two ever end up on the same square, Charles Augustus Milverton will go directly to jail, do not pass Go, do not collect £200.

Yes, yes, it seems the game is determined to mirror his life. He shudders and asks, "What's the other way?"

Jim explains, "You pay _half_ the tax to the bank, and we hide the rest offshore."

"That'll do." The bank gets one hundred. 'Offshore' turns out to be the mantelpiece, and Charlie's cash is left under a marker that reads 'Grand Caiman'. He's rather pleased with that, actually. It's nice, having something in his hidden coffers again. Even if it _is_ only a game…

Jim too is pleased. Pleased to see how pleased Charlie is. His recent misfortunes make him weak. Charlie's clinging to any little victory right now. So easily satisfied. It'll stop him really striving for better and better.

So he flies back from his little banking trip and picks up the dice. He can manage this lot. He doesn't even feel the need to taunt them as he casts.

Two squares takes him to meet Danielle at the community chest. He's glad she got there before him. Jim has no desire to collect mean little pittances from petty crooks. He hopes the next card has more of a challenge to it.

"_Roll again_," he reads. "_You cannot buy the property you land on, and must take on one of its jobs_." Good. Exactly what he was hoping for. A nice bit of intrigue to get him started off.

The second roll takes him to the Angel Islington. Just a _touch_ annoying; it's a good strategic position, and one he would usually like to buy and own. Still, can't have it all.

This is where the black folder comes in. He gets it from under the coffee table and opens it to find out what's going down on this little patch of North London right now. As it turns out, he's got three jobs to choose from.

Firstly, there's an assassination. It's not an option. It's going to _cost_ him money, and he'd have to hire Moran's cannon in to do the job. Anyway, all assassinations should be left until later in the game, when players have started buying themselves people and allies at various locations. There's the option to start blackmailing a bank manager, but the pay-out isn't huge. Plus, he'd have to buy in the Top Hat. Charlie has money enough. It would be a hard bargain to make it worth his while.

But finally, most delightfully, he's got the choice of ripping off said-bank, and all he needs to do is drop a fish in front of a certain, starving kitty.

"Dani, I want to rob a bank." She shakes her head. Still thinking her silly, superstitious thoughts of ones and aces and one-stone pendants. "Forget Whitechapel," he tells her. "I'll buy you Whitechapel."

Now she looks up. Now she's interested. "Whitechapel and fifty-percent of the take from the bank."

"Don't be stupid. Then you walk away with more than I do. Whitechapel and fifteen-percent."

"Whitechapel and forty."

"Twenty-five."

"Forty, James. I'm broke, not desperate."

"You will be if your next step takes you to Income Tax and you end up in debt. Whitechapel's yours, and thirty percent, final offer."

She bites her lip, thinking hard about it. "If we pick up a cop, you take the heat."

With his money? With his wheelbarrow? "Done," and he slides the Cat up to meet him at the bank.

The numbers one-to-six are listed below the description of the bank heist, next to each number is a potential take, ranging from the petty stick-up amount of £200 to the high-class, four-weeks-of-planning-and-eight-men-inside-the-vault £3000.

But the thief herself has to roll that and the thief sits with her arms folded until her new homestead is bought and paid for and the deed placed in her hand. Then she deigns to pick up the dice. Jim sits very still, concentrating on hiding his tells. He's out £60 with buying her a flat; if they don't come out of this heist with decent money, she still might do better than him from the deal. He just hopes all those ones she was thinking of will abandon her now.

She kisses the back of her fist and drops the dice. It spins on its corner for far, far too long. Mies knows she can't lose, and her eyes are alight. Jim wills it just to land and be done. Then it clicks to one side and Mies starts dancing in her seat. "Six! That's what you get when you hire the best!"

"You _jammy_ cow," Moran moans at her. "Jim, there's a kill on that square. We did it before and I remember. Does loyalty mean nothing to you?"

Not in this game, but he doesn't say that out loud. For one, Moran knows that. For another, he needs a bit of hush and holds up a hand to get it. "Hold on it. For a three or a six we have to roll again."

Robbed and indignant and adding up her cut, "_Why_?!"

"Just to see if we had to kill anyone on the way out."

"Oh," Mies shrugs. "Well, that's alright. Take it away, then."

Milverton's a little confused. That sounds like the sort of thing that ought to earn them a police tail. Of course, Mies has already protected herself from that, but surely Jim ought to be a little more worried? But rather than look like an idiot again, Milverton keeps his mouth shut. He'll just watch, and see what happens.

Even, they got out clean.

Odd, and that's how many bodies they left behind them.

Jim rolls a three and winces, "Ah, the poor gents." He gives the dead security guard, the teller, and the have-a-go-hero a moment of respectful silence.

Then, it seems, the dice is getting passed back to Moran and everything is going to continue on happily.

"No, wait," Milverton cuts in. "What? Three dead and no repercussions? A few rounds in and you'd built yourself up, I could probably accept that. If you had properties on the spot, I could accept that. But now? Really?"

Mies takes a break from counting her haul and points smugly across the board at her partner-in-crime. "Wheelbarrow! Pile up your dead and roll them down to the river, your Lordship. The bodies are nothing to- _Oi_! There's only eight-hundred here! Thirty percent of three grand entitles me to nine!"

Jim rolls his eyes and hands her the other hundred he tried to hold back.

It seems cheating and manipulation are to be actively encouraged. Milverton likes that. It makes him happy and distant while Moran starts to shake the dice again. It's only out of simple interest that he says, "And nobody sees you rolling a barrow full of corpses out to the middle of Tower Bridge, do they?"

"Will you relax?" Jim says, "It's only a game."

"You said that as though anyone in this room actually believes it."

* * *

[A/N - It has been pointed out to me that I am 'excluding' American readers by using the British set of the game. But I'm writing for 4 UK players here. Wiki has a very good depiction of the UK board and, having recently acquired a set myself (on the cheap because of a damaged box!), I will be doctoring it and posting the images on Tumblr. For pure giggles. Anyone got any ideas how to print up official looking Chance and Chest cards?]


	4. Strategy

Moran's got a plan. He can see them all looking at him. He can see the respect draining out of them. Nice, safe Sebastian, not taking no chances. And he could not possibly give any less of a toss. Let them think. Dani was being patronizing when she called him strategic. He'll make her eat that, and no mistake.

He's not the sort to wish over dice, but a six would be just lovely. And he's rather pleased, rather feels the fates are with him and his strategy, when he gets it.

It takes him past Go, collecting his £200, just as he planned. That's nice to begin with; after Dani's windfall at the bank, he'd been the poorest player on the board. Nice to be back on top. And it takes him to the Old Kent Road. Now, with the lady in control of Whitechapel, it would be petty and pointless to buy up the other half of the block. He'd make an enemy and never be able to build anything up.

Charlie sees this too. "Bad luck," he says. "Looks like you're having a pint at the Lord Nelson and no more."

"Do yourself a favour," Moran tells him, "Don't even think about drink during play. You need your wits about you. Anyway, I'm on my second round, lad. Means I can go shopping."

"Why does it matter that this is your second round? Jim already bought Danielle Whitechapel."

"Oh, I'm not going house-hunting. No." He nods across at the rest of the silver tokens, still in their line. Charlie's breath catches. The power of having the right tokens was just proven to him. That silly little cat lifted its mistress out of poverty and it wasn't even her turn. "I'll be having that Battleship please, James." And when tokens only cost twice the price of the square you're standing on, and him on the cheapest square of the board, he grins, "Bargain," and sets his new secret weapon to one side.

"Gorgeous play," Mies purrs, as she takes the dice from him.

Moran knows what she's doing. She's remembering the only time they ever got Jim out of the game fairly. They went in together. Moran, for his part, is remembering what she did to him the turn immediately after and isn't falling for it again.

Her toss takes her to the visitors room at whatever prison she desires to visit. "I'll just sit."

"You're sure?" Jim cuts in. Part of it is genuine surprise. Part of it is baiting her. "Nobody you want to look in on?"

"Not this time." Because Milverton is clearly confused again, "Certain prisoners can help strengthen your position. We'll give you the list if you ever end up visiting. Or when I put you in a cell."

"Is that a threat?" he starts.

"Might be."

Jim, still pushing, "Not even old AJ? For old time's sake? You usually like to snag him early on."

"AJ," she says firmly, "will wait for me." This is new. Jim had not counted on this. What's she playing at that she doesn't want to bulk up her cat's credentials? It's not like she's rolling in cash. One chat with AJ, costing her nothing, would up her cut any job she's called in on. He's watching her so intently that he misses the glare and the wink that pass between her and Milverton as she gives him the dice. "Don't worry," she whispers, "It's way on down the line. Enjoy your freedom."

"Is this _still_ about Kyoto?"

The roll of her eyes states quite plainly that all things will always be about Kyoto, but before she can say so, Jim cuts in on them again. "Will you two kindly not fight your personal battles over my game, please?"

Mies raises her hands and sits back. Charlie keeps his eyes on her and drops the dice to spin in the middle of the board. A six would bring him to meet the Bitch, idling in the vile Audi she's driving these days outside the gates of Wormwood Scrubs. He wonders, if he asked politely, might there be some way for him to slash her tyres and leave her sitting there, maybe do her out of a turn.

But the spin lands for a three and leaves him at the mercy of another fate. After his taxes last time, now he faces the uncertainty of Chance.

And because he has yet to stop thinking about sticking a knife in something very dear to her, he is still watching the bitch Mies, and sees the very mild smile she makes no attempt to hide. It comes back to him in a flash of inspiration – she crept into this room before the rest of them, to stick her nose in the folder. "She knows," he says, pointing at her. "She looked before the game, she knows what the top card is."

"I'd believe that," Jim mutters. "Easily solved. Seb, give those a shuffle for him, would you?"

"Yes, if you'd be so kind," and Charlie straightens. Feeling triumphant. Feeling justified. She tries to laugh, covering up her slip but he's not buying it, not for a second. He's still smug when Moran holds out the newly-fair deck. His face doesn't fall until he slips the card from the top. One of the handwritten ones, added in to make the game that bit more applicable to them.

Handwritten and added in by Moriarty, which perhaps accounts for some of its cruelty. He has to read out sickly, "You go home, only to find MI5 watching the place. Bury yourself in a safe-house and buy no property this round…"

Jim is shaking his head, smiling, "You're a nasty twat, Dani."

This is all the trigger she needs to fall laughing against Moran. "Too easy, Charlie boy."

"Wait!" he cries, livid. "Jim, you knew what it said too? You knew what she was doing!"

"You wanted a shuffle," he shrugs. "It could have come off better or worse. And it just happened to come off worse… Jesus, round one and we're starting all this shite again. It gets worse every time. Now stop being a big child, Mr Milverton. Unclench your fist and give me that dice. I promise I won't look at you or anything." Mies goes into another gale and Milverton bites his lip to keep from cursing her. That would be a waste of energy and an unnecessary show of emotion. There are old sayings about what a man should do rather than get mad.

In the wake of their first great betrayal, Jim plays simply. Gets himself to Pall Mall and yes, definitely, he'll be having that. Control over the pink block would give him Whitehall and access to all the politicians and the civil servants that come with that. Whoever ends up with the Electric company, he'll have a stake in that.

But he's got one eye on Marylebone Station, teasingly close. Because everybody here knows that's his, or they'd better. Whatever their plans might have been for the railroads, Marylebone is his. Because everybody here knows which little street is just off the Marylebone Road, and those who have played before know that everything has its place in the game.


	5. Bow Street

Moran is boring again. While he takes himself to Income Tax and chooses to simply pay it, Jim rolls his eyes over Charlie. It's early. He can afford to be distracted, just for a moment. Who knows? Maybe he'll come away with some useful information too.

Mies' dice takes her to Marylebone. She knows better than to buy it and has no desire to skip around the board. All very dull, this round. Yeah, Jim's up for a chat.

"So? Put us out of our misery, Milverton." Charlie looks up. He's a little lost, actually. Hasn't quite heard the question, all tied up in the game like a big child. Idiot. He'll figure out soon enough; the best of play is happening _right_ now. "Well, before you got here, naturally enough the chat came round to… what you intend to do now."

Mies nods, sitting low behind the rim of her coffee cup. "You're burned in London, after all."

"Yes, _thanks_ for that," Jim grumbles at her. Obscured where Charlie can't see her, she gives a pretty little flick of the eyes, _All Yours, Dear_. "Had you even thought about it?"

Oh yes. Charlie rolls the dice, thinking about it all over again. He's done a lot of thinking. But he thinks himself into corner after corner after dead-end after corner to bring him back again to Square One. But it wouldn't do to admit to that. He slides his token carelessly to meet Jim at Pall Mall and breezes bravely, "I thought I'd hang about for a bit, actually. Years, I've avoided Magnussen. I'd be very interested to know how he got hold of my personal information."

Moran looks at Mies, and Mies looks back. As Charlie tries to join in and read the glances, Jim all of a sudden cuts in, "You're on my property."

"Just a second-" he tries.

"No. You're on my _property_. Now, you can pay up the rent like a good lad, or you can do me a favour."

"Charlie, think carefully about this," Moran says, tapping his arm, and Mies mutters something about all the cheating help he's getting.

"Wait, think about what? About what I said about Magnussen or about-?"

Jim snaps his fingers, hard, grabbing attention. "Oi! You're not negotiating with them, you're negotiating with me. Now you can give me my hundred-and-forty quid, paid prompt and in full. Or you can put that Top Hat of yours to work."

"What do you mean?"

"You know who hangs out on Pall Mall. It's those Diogenes boys. Mycroft and his lot. They've got their little clubhouse right there. All I need is a start on one of them. All I need is the possibility of blackmail. After that I can work the lead myself. But I need that Hat of yours to buy it for me. And you don't have to pay me a penny."

Moran's hand claps down on his shoulder, "Charlie, think, mate. It's not just about what he's telling you. What's the rest?"

Jim stabs a finger at the man who usually stands so steadfast at his right hand, "I'll remember this, Judas."

Genuinely aggravated. So it's real. This time it isn't a trap. Charlie thinks, hard. It's not just about he's being told… Then it's about what he _isn't_ being told.

You can pay rent, _or_ you can do the job for me… _Or_. That's what's missing. Another 'or', another option. He can pay, or work, or… "Well, James," he says, with a danger he enjoys hearing on his own voice, "What if _I_ would like to buy the man from Diogenes?"

Moran's hand turns fist, bumping his shoulder proudly, "Then you pay double rent for working on his patch."

A balled-up KitKat foil bounces off the side of his head and Mies cries, "Just give him the rules. Just give them to him. We'll give him study time."

"Yes, I'd like to begin my purchase of a high-ranking Secret Service official, please." Charlie carefully counts out his money. Very carefully. Takes his time. Some might say, he milks it. When he begins passing it to Jim note-by-note, most would say _pushing_ it. But Jim's not looking at him. He's looking at Moran. Accepting his rent, note by note, he keeps looking. Eye to eye, totally steady, hardening himself against this man. Outside this room, he's a brother-in-arms, a right-hand, a staunch, upstanding angel to stand vengeful at his shoulder. Not in here.

It's this board. It gets between people.

But, as the man in charge, it's up to Jim to play along. He reaches for the file, looks up Pall Mall and fishes out an index card. Details about a Diogenes member and what he'll be useful for once he's bought. Even-versus-odd rolls, taken every turn, decide how quickly he gains control.

It is _very_ painful to let that card be taken from his hand. Charlie looks it over, charmed by the idea. Then he says, "I'm going to name him Mycroft."

"_No_!"

"Touch a nerve, did I?"

Moran will not help. Jim looks at Mies instead, but she's still sunk low in the sofa. Flicks her eyes at him again. "_I_ was told to stay out of it. You call him whatever you want, Charlie. We always name our Friends, don't we, boys?"

"Thought you were staying out of it?"

There's a tiny moment where Jim knows what he's done, before they lift up in chorus, "_Ooh_."

"Shut up. Where's the dice?"

Moran grins, enjoying himself, "Here's to Marylebone, right? Not trying to jinx you or anything. Bet you'd love a four, wouldn't you? Four. I never really roll fours that often. I know it's a one-in-six chance but-"

Charlie, getting the feel of things, "No, me either. Funny that, isn't it? A random number between one and six and it's so _very_ bloody hard to roll a four. No matter how much you might want to." Rather than just throw the dice, Jim fires it into the wake of the biscuit wrapper, bouncing it off Moran's temple to land in the centre of the board.

Five.

"Oh," Charlie groans, grinning, "_poor_ you!" Mies bites in her lips. Charlie can see her in the corner of his eye, but he's not paying attention. He doesn't even notice that Jim is smiling. It's not grim. It's not a cover-up. It's not a silly pretence. He goes on laughing. Goes on taunting.

Jim quietly sees himself through the purchase of Bow Street. He would _happily_ pass the dice back to Moran and move just as quietly on. But Mies stretches out her leg, right across the table and kicks Charlie hard in the kneecap. "You're still not thinking, you daft bastard. _Bow_ Street. Kick your brain into gear and _do_ try and look past the fact that the Opera House is there-"

Jim laughs, "Although, there is a House Rule, if Dani lands at Bow Street she hears an aria and misses a turn."

"He's trying to humiliate me in order to distract you. I won't give you all the answers wrapped up like darling Sebastian, but I'll tell you that much."

Bow Street. He's ashamed to say, when he tries to think about it, he _does_ get stuck at the Opera House. He gets a bar of Habanera clear as though Carmen were in the room. It blocks him. There's nothing else _on_ Bow Street, or nowhere he's ever stopped. Just a few nice places to eat, and a Victorian police station they're trying to turn into a boutique hotel. Sleep in a former cell? He'd never have set foot near it except that one of the new owners has a sister who had an affair and she...

Victorian police station.

Bow Street. The _first_ police in London started out at Bow Street.

"You've got the Met," he breathes.

"No Scotland Yard on the Monopoly board," Jim shrugs. "Had to put them somewhere."

Mies sits up, finally, lopsidedly smiling, "You want to buy a trevor, and you will, you'll have to go through him. Jim, Jim, listen to this and tell me what you think of it; _Chief Inspector Moriarty of the Yard_…"

"Oh! Oh, yes, Danielle. Oh, say it again."

"_Chief. Inspector. Moriarty-" _His hand trails the cadence of her words in the air like gentle music, lips working silently along with her, "_of the Ya-ard_."

He picks up one of the repurposed tiddlywinks and flips it to her. "You're forgiven. Have a peeler."


	6. Old Kent Road

After these early betrayals, after all the players have shown their intentions and taken the measure of their opponents, things turn quiet. Their bombast fades and they play cagily, stalking each other, sliding around their shadows as they try to amass power and wealth. For the most part, they stay out of each other's ways.

A train station brings Charlie around the board and he starts buying property. A lot of it. A good real estate base has always been essential to him; a combination of show homes to match the personas he takes on, boltholes for the darker moments. And a nice little home for himself at the Strand. He looks forward to buying Fleet Street, and all that is sure to come with that historic seat of journalism.

Mies, by _disgustingly_ awful luck, skips all the way down the right side of the board, all through the green and blue, and the most she has the opportunity to buy is the train station. And since Jim is _determined_ to take Marylebone, what on earth would be the point? She takes herself right around the board, collects her £200 and uses it to buy control of the Thimble.

"You know," Jim says to her, "When I looked at that token, and I thought, what a useless fecking thing, what purpose do I put this to?, I thought what I came up with was dead clever. Because it's a thimble, worn for sewing, and it occurred to me that it might be used to _join_ two parties, or to _repair_ certain relationships."

"It _was_ dead clever," she told him, staying close, staying friends. "Still _is_."

"Yeah, but whenever _you_ end up with it, I _know_ exactly how you'd be joining or repairing relationships and I don't feel clever anymore. I just feel dirty."

She fought with herself. Maybe she should invest in the racing car instead, and that wouldn't annoy him. But things would only get worse for her if he thought she was pandering. He'd tear her to shreds if he thought she was doing _anything_ just to please him, if only to prove that he didn't need her. Instead she sat back, apologetic, with the thimble hooked on the tip of her little finger, and for a turn or two she kept her head down.

Or she tried to, anyway.

Moran, you see, he's had a run of good fortune. It's given him his third token, the Scotty Dog. It's given him Mayfair and the possibility of control over those beautiful royal blues. A lucky chance card gave him an SIS agent to call his own, and it's not until he wants to put the man to use that he'll have to decide if he's MI5 or 6. And all of this in short order. It's buoyed him up. Given him a bit of confidence. Big mistake. You never let your first success puff you up. Goad you on, make you hungry, yes. But every good criminal knows, you can't let yourself think you're invincible after the first run. Mies is watching it happen and her heart sinks. That big idiot grin starts to spread across his face between rounds and she can't hold her silence, "Break for lunch, lads?"

"Not just yet," says Milverton. Thinks to himself she must be just dying to smoke and keeping her here can only work in his favour.

Jim sways his head, "Not hungry." He's more aware than Charlie is. He noticed Danielle protecting Moran before he noticed anything going wrong in the man himself. A turn ago, he would have welcomed lunch. Now his appetite is gone and he's not hungry. Not for anything except what Moran is about to so willingly give.

Moran's luck takes him back to the Old Kent Road again. It takes him somewhere stupid too. "I'll not buy it out from under you, Dani."

"I should think not. Now sit down, like a good boy, and hold your rotten tongue until the dice is yours again."

"No, no, hold on, hold on, love." Mies shuts her eyes. He's got that smile on his face. The one he wears when Liverpool are two goals up at half-time. The one where he can't even _conceive_ of anything possibly going wrong. She could grab him now and whisper every detail in his ear. He wouldn't hear it. "I would like to pull a job, please. Seeing I'm amassing great Swiss accounts full of lovely money and not up to much, and seeing the Old Kent and me are meant to be, I would like to pull a job."

Jim hands him the black folder with all the casual neglect of Satan lending his pen to one who would sign the contract for his soul. As he begins to open it, Mies reaches out and grabs it shut again. "Sebastian, are you sure you're sure?"

"Of course he's sure. He took the file off me."

"We are barely _hours_ in to this, Seb."

"He's a grown man, Danielle, he knows when he wants to make a mark."

Charlie, who is simply trying to increase his knowledge of the game and _not at all _stirring the pot, "But I don't understand. What's so dangerous about it? Jim did it on the first roll."

"Yeah, exactly, Charlie. I did it. Nothing to it, Moran. C'mon, lad, it's what you want."

"Don't listen to him, Charlie; the chance card forced him too. And alright, so it worked out, but that doesn't mean it'll work out for you, Seb darling. You not so well-off this couldn't ruin you, and not so well connected that prison isn't a very real option."

"But what's life without a risk or two? Don't let her talk you out of it, Moran."

"Seb, just remember, as soon as you open the folder you're committed. You have to pull _something_ once you've said you will."

Moran drops his head into his hands, "Will you shut up, both of you?! I feel like no man's land!" They fall silent, waiting. And when he releases his skull, he starts to open the file. "It'll be fine. I'll be alright."

Now, what's he got, what's he got… He finds the right page and skims it. Realizes, with dismay, that his current location doesn't have an awful lot to offer him. He's got the option to go into property redevelopment; it'll give him a pay-out on every turn, regardless of whether he owns the place or not. It'll give him the power to veto anyone who decides to buy, if he so chooses. But it's a £2000 buy-in, and that still has the power to bankrupt him if the dice should suddenly turn. And what else is here? An assassination he has no use for and a blackmail option he really doesn't want.

"What's the bank's cut," he asks Jim, "if I borrow, say, a grand, to invest?"

"Ten percent, every round. So a hundred quid every time you pass go, mate." Jim smiles. He's not getting anything out of it, of course, but he likes seeing it go away from his opponent. And as Moran works it out in his head, it's leaving him with almost nothing to gain from taking this chance in the first place. But what can he do? What can he do, when he's committed, when he _has_ to do something?

Quietly, forgotten amongst the sofa cushions, Mies says, "Eight hundred for a fifty percent stake in your profits, and you don't oppose me when I come to buy and build down there."

Moran swings his head, "It's a lot to ask."

"It's the best offer you've got. I'm saving you, Sebastian. Don't throw it back in my face."

Yeah. Yeah, she's saving him. Because she likes him, because they're friends. Because she needs him for later on so that she can take Charlie for every penny he's got, but mostly because she likes him and they're friends.

"I'll stake you the grand."

And all those who have been most involved look sharply at Milverton. This is as close as he's gottn to real gameplay. It comes out of nowhere, and it is directed (in Jim's opinion anyway) at totally the wrong person. He'll never get between Mies and Moran. Not over a measly thousand, not over some crumbling pubs in the Old Kent Road. Even if he gets this, it's no guarantee of an alliance. Why, Jim asks himself, isn't the silly prick trying to get in with _him_? What's _Moran_ offering, for God's sake?

But Moran _considers_ it. Asks cautiously, "And your conditions are?"

"Conditions? Oh, no, let's not bother with anything quite so tawdry as that." Moran draws back. Shakes his head fervently. "Gift horses, Moran," Charlie mutters in pretty singsong, "_mouths_…"

"Nah. Nah, mate. No such thing. Dani, welcome to the exciting world of property development."

"Wait!" Charlie calls out, "What did I do wrong?"

"You're going to call it in," Moran moans. "I'll be in the middle of something really delicate and you'll just be in my ear hissing that you staked me when I fucked up at the Old Kent Road and I just can't be having that, Charlie."

"_No_, no, I wouldn't do that." And Milverton has to pause here, under the sheer force of disbelief. Four eyes full of disbelief and two full of 'oh please'. "Honestly, you'll never hear from me again. I'm just taking a ripe opportunity away from _her_."

"And I've got your word on that?"

"_Sebastian!_"

"My word as a gentleman."

Moran puts out his hand, and they shake on it as Mies throws herself reeling from the couch and goes to smoke sullenly at the window. Their transaction goes on beneath her notice. All she knows is that her dearest friend is being bought away from her for a poxy thousand, and that there's not a hope on God's green nor Satan's scarlet earth that Milverton intends to _keep_ his word.

The business partners themselves are caught up, both pretty proud of themselves. Moran shouldn't be. It's another trap.

And Jim? He looks at Mies' back and decides maybe he shouldn't' be paying her any attention. Maybe he shouldn't' be paying any attention to Charlie either. Maybe the one he should really be looking at is Sebastian. After all, that's the one he's going to end up fighting. The other two need only be left to their own devices. That cold war of theirs will do his job for him.


	7. Good Fortune And The Governor

Danielle Mies prides herself on her ability to keep a clear head under pressure. It's what she does best. In many ways, it's her role amongst these people. Her job (amongst all the other bloody jobs) is to stand back and look objectively at situations where the gentlemen perhaps aren't displaying the best judgement. To say, 'Now hold on' and 'But what if' and, on rare and _very gratifying_ occasions, to deliver a sharp, stunning slap.

It is, therefore, very much against her better judgement that she finds every breath of her harsh, bitter cigarette becoming about all the things Charlie Milverton has ever stolen from her.

It's a bad idea. A little rage might be good for the game on the rugby pitch or in the boxing ring, but not when you're toying with such delicate strategies, managing Chance. It's a really bad idea, but she can _count_ these things, and she's not sure she wouldn't need her toes to tick them all off. This latest betrayal, taking her best mate and his lucrative property deal away from her, that's barely a broken fingernail compared to what's gone before. He's had this coming a long time, when she starts to think about it, and if she can _decimate_ him on the board she might not have to tear him limb from limb in life.

"If you could stop doing your impression of a wronged woman," Jim calls, interrupting her brutal reveries, "and come back and throw the dice, we'd all be much obliged."

"…Seb, help me out, would you?"

She hears them thrown, and hears them land. But when three voices tell her three different numbers, she leaves the cigarette on the windowsill and goes back to them. Moran, bless him, was the only one who wasn't lying to her. She doesn't blame him, anyway. He only took the best offer available.

Her squares earn her a Community Chest card. "Advance to the free car park. Roll again to dictate what happens to you there."

Rolling a one would give her control of the Race Car token, absolutely free. That would be nice, getting such a powerful item for nothing. Two, and she meets an old enemy, who'll shoot her unless she can pay for police protection or the aid of some backstreet doctor. Three would see her buying a shipment of narcotics, which might be placed on any property to drive out the current owner and give her total control until a police officer lands there. Four gives her a copper all her own. Five and a journalist sends her to jail, directly, do not pass go, do not collect £200…

But fate is a very strange thing. It gives Miss Mies a six, and gives her back something of her usual clarity.

You see, six brings her to an old enemy, and to a vicious stab wound in the stomach. (There are three other players and she could glare at _any_ of them as she reads this out. Being a lady, of course she refrains). For the next three rounds, she can move only one square at a time.

What a handicap. What a horrible thing. Her next move, without a shadow of a doubt, will bring her to Charlie's place in the Strand. She'll pay up, or God knows what he'll try to involve her in. The one after that brings the awful uncertainty of Chance again.

But… provided, of course, the Chance card doesn't send her injured body halfway round the town… that third move…

That's another red spot. And Charlie hasn't had a chance to snap it up yet.

That's _Fleet Street_. _And yay, though I walk through St James' trailing death, I shall fear no journo, for they are with me; their pens and their iPads shall be my shield_.

She goes quietly back to her cigarette, and waits. About a round later, just before she moves again, Milverton puts it together. She feels his burning, terrified eyes in the side of her head and spins, barking, "This is for the fucking prayer wheels, you shit!"

"You're reaching back a bit there, dear. Are we to have the full litany of my trespasses?"

"No. This time I'm not going to be so stupid as to let you live that long."

"…Lady Houghton gave those to me of her own free will, you know."

Yes. And all those shamefaced socialites pay up to him monthly of their own free will, and he eats at a certain three-Michelin-star restaurant almost every night in life at no charge by the chef's good graces, and his Jermyn Street tailor does all that work _gratis_ because he _likes_ him. Mies rolls her eyes and taps ash into the roses under the window.

Milverton sighs off these petty shows. Peacock tails, that's all it is.

Anyway, there are more interesting things going on here. If Charlie's not much mistaken, their brave and fearless leader is starting to get a little bit bored. Jim's tapping his foot, looking like he wants in on some of this drama. Looking like he wishes he smoked, just to have something else to do for ten minutes. He'd dearly love to turn his back on the board and see if his money would dwindle the way Mies' is, as Moran quietly slips note after note towards his own stocks. Just because then he'd get to come back and deal with that.

It's no _great_ surprise then, when he announces brightly that he wants to _work_, wants a _job_ on, wants to play. And being at Pentonville Road, there's not a doubt in his mind what he wants to play at. Those ice blues down in the corner have Moran's name on them, though. He'll have to play this carefully. Anyway, hadn't he decided it's Moran he wants? He's going to shelter Moran from the storm, drag him through the dark times and out the other side in one piece. Use him to battle the victor when the dust settles after Dani and his Lordship go nuclear. It's too early yet to place a bet on which of them it'll be, but that won't matter. He'll have Moran well in his pocket by then.

"Oi, Cannon," he mutters, as if it's only just occurred to him, "Let's you and me have a pop at the Governor."

The man in charge of Pentonville. The keeper of the keys. The big lad. Got his own personal toilet and sets up heists himself, if you've ever seen The Italian Job. The Governor. It's tempting. Moran scratches his stubble and asks, "What do I get for my services?"

"Off me? Not a pick, son. But if we pull this off, the two of us together, that gent will personally see to it that neither of us ever spends more than one turn of the board in jail. As opposed to the usual three, I think you'll agree it's a prize worth fighting for. I've seen you get stuck inside, Moran; you _know_ this is a gift I'm giving you."

There is a slight tip of Moran's head. Waiting, listening for something. But Mies is at the window, wrapped up in her own carefully plotted vengeance. She's not paying enough attention to hiss advice at him this time. Instead, Moran just has to remember, and echo an earlier stipulation. "Alright, but I don't want any heat from this. We pick up a copper he is _all_ yours."

Charlie thinks he understands the smile on Jim's face. He smiles right along, thinks he's got this all stitched up.

He watches them go at it. The Governor gets a cannon pressed to his head and a wheelbarrow full of bodies shoved under his nose and really has no choice but to do a deal with his gentleman visitors. That was a foregone conclusion.

What's interesting is what follows. The dice rolls go against them. Not only do they pick up a police officer, but the Governor sets some of his more vicious parolees on the same trail. And Jim only winces and swears and seems to accept this. He takes it all, drops them the prerequisite squares behind him. Takes it on the chin.

"But wait," Charlie asks, "You _own_ the police. You bought Bow Street, all of that is yours."

Jim sighs. "One good egg, that's all it takes."

And, though most of them are empty now, four coffee cups are lifted up in toast, amongst respectful, defeated murmurs of 'To Sally' and 'May she prosper and thrive' and 'Nasty bloody cow'.

Someday, when they've all got a little bit less on their minds, they ought to tell you that story…


	8. A Phone Booth On Vine Street

Mies has just landed at the Moriarty-owned Vine Street. She bites her lip, carefully balancing the positive and negative of just paying the rent and sitting quietly. She could offer him services instead of cash, but heaven knows _what_ he would want her to get up to in that short, shady alley, with the arse end of a hotel on her either side. It could be worth the risk just to see what he can engineer. But risk is reckless, and she's all too aware of how early they are in play and-

A shrill, trilling cry and she jumps stiff and gasping out of the reverie. When the initial shock fades, she spots Milverton reaching into his jacket. "Charlie! Trying to give me a heart attack is foul play!"

"Foul play?" Moran's confusion is one-hundred percent genuine, "What game are you in, love? What's foul play?"

But Charlie has no time even to relish these tiny humiliations. He's looking down at the screen of his phone. "I do need to take this, actually…"

With practiced grace (and some pointed sighs), everyone gets up from around the coffee table and backs away; Moran and Moriarty leaning on the sideboard at one wall, Mies hanging in the window again. "Oh, wait, wait," and Jim rushes back. Takes a red enamel phone booth from the box of the game and sets it carefully on Vine Street.

Even distracted, even on his way out of the room, Charlie is curious enough to stop and point at it, "What does that do?"

"Nothing," Moran grins. "He just really likes it." Milverton shakes his head and walks on. As he pulls the door to, he hears the rest, "Look, you can see the loop on the top where he nicked it off a keyring!"

That helps him plaster a smile on his face so he can answer nice and bright, "What can I do for you?"

He should have walked farther down the hall. They heard that, inside. They heard the desperation in the greeting. A look of mild concern passes between Moran, who won't realize this is a show of exploitable weakness for another hour or so, and Moriarty, who's already thought better of targeting Charlie. Because Mies, the moment that plea for help goes up, looked at the keyhole in the old door the way a cat spots a sparrow.

"Now, Miss Danielle," Jim croons with false caution. "That's a naughty thought to be having. There's a reason we have rules about phone calls."

"Those rules being that we are up and away from the table. I'm not moving his tokens, I'm not inching that copper he's pulled closer to him, I'm not stealing his money like some we could mention. Rules say nothing about me getting up against the door."

"Obviously you'd prefer it if Moran and I didn't _mention_ your eavesdropping to Charlie?"

She is missing valuable phone conversation. Negotiation will be swift or will be useless. "Vine Street and whatever place of yours I land on next, I won't even dream of paying rent."

"Next five," Jim says, but only because it's so much fun to stall her.

"Vine plus two." He concedes with a wave of one hand.

Mies, victorious, breezes towards the door.

"What about me?!" Moran balks.

"You? Remember cutting me out of the property stitch at the Old Kent Road? I won't drop a shipment of best Daytona meth on your doorstep and eat it out from under you any time soon, alright? Charlie wouldn't thank you for that, I don't think."

She curls up smugly, one ear to the keyhole and the other pressed closed, and begins to learn.

Jim watches in much the same spirit. Look at her, all locked up in a little loop of subterfuge with Milverton, fighting out the same ancient battle over and over again. Bless. This time she's keeping an eye on her cash, but she can't hear them. "Moran," he starts to say, in a sort of hush-

"-Ooh, here it comes."

"What're you on about?"

"You've been too quiet, mate. Everybody here's been ready to go for the throat and you're the only one not buying into it."

So Jim folds his arms, and decides to _stay_ quiet. He had an offer to make, yeah, but he'll keep it to himself now. Maybe another break will come and Moran will be ready to listen. For now, though, he can offer some advice. After all, whether he knows it or not, the Colonel is his key ally. "Put it this way," he mumbles, "Germany is outside the door, trying to buy his way to Russia. England's coiled up purring at the keyhole."

"And you're going to be Captain America then, are you? Cocky prick. Where does that leave me?" Jim softly, almost gingerly, hums a few bars of _La Marseillaise_. Suddenly loud, "_France_!? You're an arsehole, y'know that?"

"_Will you kindly_?!" Mies hisses. Glares them into submission and goes back to listening.

"I will," Milverton is saying. His smile is still there, but it trembles now, nervous, dropping on off his face by turns. Delicious. "I will, honestly. You'll have it before the week's out." Another pause, and then, full of hate and a sort of dread that touches Mies in ways she was once touched in a phone booth on Vine Street, "You'll do _what_? After all we've come through. All these years and have I ever once defaulted? And this is what I get, cheap threats?"

Whatever is said, his rant doesn't get the reaction he was probably hoping for. "The end of the week," he repeats. Sounding sad and tired and defeated and that's all.

Charlie hangs up. Breathes deeply, and he _would_ sigh it away, if it weren't that in the silence of the breath he hears the sound of heels on parquet floor. He throws the door open as quickly as he can.

"You alright there, our kid?" says Moran.

No immediate answer, and a paranoid look around. He sees Mies standing at the antique dresser with two glasses in front of her, uncapping the Grey Goose. "Little one?" and she waves the bottle at him.

"You," he mutters, unable to make the sentence hang together just yet. He clears his throat. "You, you were listening."

"That would be in breach of the rules. We all understand that business goes on. Phone calls are sacred, Charlie."

Her eyes are too big. He never knows what to do when she does that. Years he's known her, and it took that time to learn to read her, but the eyes flare huge and blinking-blinking _ceaselessly_ bloody blinking, he's lost. Against his better judgement he turns to the two other men (now discussing the advisability of a 'little one' themselves). He just wants truth. Just once. Just now, after what he's just been through on the phone.

Moriarty opens his mouth… Closes it again. Breaks with a smile, "I was going to wind you up, but you look so pathetic. Calm down, Charlie, it's not something we'd let her get away with." Milverton is still staring. And Mies' eyes are still big enough to keep him suspicious. "Seb, tell him."

"…Look at his face. Do I have to?" An elbow answers him. "You're safe, your Lordship. Go on and have that drink, you look like you need it."

He nods over Charlie's shoulder. When he turns, Mies is holding out one of the glasses. He'd like it very much. But it's the eyes, and the offer, and the three of them all saying the same thing. He swallows dryly. "No. Thank you…"


	9. Red

Play could have stopped about an hour ago. An explosion on Regent Street, and the subsequent wrath of owner Charlie, have kept things going. The excuse given ('Come on, it was only anti-commercialist terrorism at the Top Shop flagship') didn't cut it. Bomber Danielle and bombmaker Moran needed to suffer. Jim had both eyes on Marylebone and happy to stay in.

But eventually, when the beginning of the round comes, and Moran is actually going to have to get up and switch a light on for play to continue, "No." He puts up his hands, showing the idle dice, "No, no. No. Can't, no more. Headache. This is the longest day's work I've ever done. I'm not having it. I'm having pizza and a drink and I don't even want to hear argument."

"Agreed," says Mies. No surprise there, seeing they're the two under fire. A night for Charlie to cool off, yeah, that's just exactly what they would want. Well, if they think they're getting off that lightly, they've got another thing coming.

And Charlie hears himself thinking like that over a board game and says, "Agreed."

So there's only Jim to convince. No one can go anywhere until all four are satisfied to step off. That's in the rules. But all of a sudden the others are noticing just how far gone he is. He hasn't realized that dark has fallen outside, that they're even discussing this. There is only one thought in his head and that is how many bloody fecking stupid bloody times he's been round this fecking board and never, _not once_, not even with all the craft and engineering he has (and that is a bloody lot of craft and a tonne of fecking engineering) can't even get himself that one, stupid little train station just down the road from Baker Street.

Moran looks to Mies. Charlie resents it, but he does it too. So she rolls her eyes and straightens her back and pretends to be the fearless bitch they think she is. Softly, like coaxing a feral stray, "Jim?"

"Take your intervention voice off."

"It's just, we _have_ been talking up here in the real world, and you seem to have missed it. I'm just wondering what's on your mind?"

He points. Stabs a finger into the crease of the board that runs through Marylebone. "This means something. That this won't come to me, that I can't have it, this means-"

"Fuck all, love. It's a square inch of cardboard." She moves to sit gingerly on the arm of his chair. He is now, and has been for the last twenty minutes, holding that much desired deed card. She clamps it between thumb and forefinger and pulls. It's not moving. It won't even wiggle side-to-side. "Jim, it's not as if some fairy is going to sweep in and buy it out from under you in the night." No response. Nothing, absolutely nothing. "Seb, get over here."

He lingers by the lightswitch, "What for?"

"You know that thing I do sometimes and sometimes he overreacts? Be here to get between us."

She positions herself carefully behind Jim's chair. Moran, thinking no one is watching, crosses himself. Then, once he's close enough to protect her, she cranks back her hand and slaps hard across the back of Jim's head. She scrambles back, and Moran steps in.

All that happens is that Jim lifts his head, blinking like a sleepwalker at the night outside the window. "God, is it late? Break for dinner?"

In grateful chorus, the others reply, "Agreed."

The dice go on the fireplace, under the wet glass from Mies' earlier drink – the ring it leaves on the wood should be undisturbed when they come back in the morning. Money piles are meticulously counted and protected; Charlie leaves his cufflinks on top, each pointing in a very specific direction, Mies ties hers down with one long dark hair from her head. The all-powerful folder is stowed beneath the coffee table, defended only by the tenuous, hanging trust.

The living room is locked. The key goes into the small wall-safe in the entrance hall, with all the car keys. The combination is four digits long and they each turn one tumbler to lock it.

(Four digits… Charlie rolls his eyes. Even Moran can crack four digits. _And all of it, _Mies thinks, _suggesting that I even need a key_. But it's the effort that counts.)

In effect, this is a good place to leave it. They've all done well for themselves, these early, struggling days of empire-building. The new map of London is all but complete. The boundary lines have been drawn.

Every good warlord knows, the property battles are the bloody ones. Machiavelli sits out the first few rounds and comes in when the dust has settled.

New London is quiet tonight. There's very little still to do. None of these players are the sort for elaborate dreams, but it doesn't take much imagination. The glaziers are at work refronting the shops of Regent Street. The bank at the Angel Islington will reopen in the morning, after the robbery and all those dead staff. The politicians at Whitehall and brave SIS arseholes at Pall Mall are at home, drinking themselves into stupors, holding their heads because they know that Jim Moriarty owns them now. The cops too, patrolling the streets in his name. What Moriarty lacks in property value he's more than made up for in resources. He's got two outposts full of support staff. One at Euston Road, one at Mayfair; protecting those few odd spots that silly, quiet Moran grabbed, like rags from the sale rack.

There's only one spot on the board that no one has laid claim to.

Well, there's Marylebone, but that's… hardly worth mentioning… No, _aside_ from that.

Because, as everybody knows, in Monopoly you can't start building on a patch until you own the whole run. This is one of the rules that their private version still observes, and observes religiously. You can do very little with the land you own, until you own it all.

And up there in the top left is a very contentious little spot. Those reds… those reds will _run_ red, before it's all done. There's Charlie at the Strand, sitting comfortably on the blackmail rights to a pair of movie stars good for a tap anytime he falls short on cash. Then, next door, Fleet Street. And the Bitch took that from him. Took it gleefully and goes everywhere now with her personal journalist, just waiting to catch him out and all the while hiding behind the poor sod. "Mail or Telegraph?" Moriarty asked her. "Guardian, darling," she purred in reply.

Then, no man's land. Trafalgar. Golden, delightful Trafalgar. Packed full of tourists – packed pockets to pick, every scam in the book waiting to be run day after day afresh and _oh_ the scandal should something _brutal_ happen there. There's work for anyone at Trafalgar Square. What a money-spinner. What a useful little plot.

Look ahead. Look deep into the night, after takeaway and drinks. Look to the spare rooms upstairs. Look, if you want to, and see Mies clawing at the sheet. She will be deep in a dream, and picking up rich red earth from the centre of Trafalgar Square. Mumbling to herself in her sleep, _Even if I have to lie, or cheat, or steal, I'll never go hungry again…_

Milverton, meanwhile, will tell a dream full of devoted sailors how England expects that every man will do his duty, with one closed fist held over his heart, against his blue uniform, amongst all the medals and ribbons of his high naval office. The sky behind his rousing speeches is bloody with promising dawn.

Of course, neither will ever remember it. At least, they won't admit as much.

But that's still a long way off. There are a few hours between now and then.

For now, we have nothing but Moran rolling the crackle out of his spine against one of the kitchen chairs. "Jim, can I sit in the armchair tomorrow?" And he tells himself, _Good, that was a good gambit, much better bet than asking Charlie for his seat_, before he remembers to snap out of that frame of mind.

Charlie is thinking, _If Jim says no, I'll offer,_ before giving himself the same dressing-down.

Jim says right out loud, "I'm not going to get Italian-Jobbed while I'm moving the bank, am I? Dani, I'm vetoing all armoured car robberies here and now." He hears the echo of himself and joins the shamefaced silence. Mies hears his veto through her hopeful glances at Moran (she'd need his Battleship, after all) and is the last to fall.

It just takes a while to readjust, that's all.

Some have suggested that you _never_ really snap out of it. And if you could only look ahead, deep into the night, you might concur. You would see Jim's sleepy little smile. Perhaps you would even guess, from his mutterings and twitches, that in a dream he is sitting cross-legged, at a low table like a child, playing with all twelve tokens and the tokens made from frozen blood. Then you might concur.

For those of you who are interested, Moran's dream is red too. This, however, is only because it's Cup Season. He dreams of Liverpool pummelling Chelsea twelve-nil, and nothing more immediately threatening than this. Then again, there must be an exception to prove the rule.


	10. Night Manoeuvres

2 a.m.

Charlie waits until absolute silence has fallen over the house. Then he slips out from between the borrowed sheets and pads softly to the door. The hinge creaked when he was turning in for the night, but he knows to deaden it with his palm. It pinches, leaves bruised flesh. It's going to be worth it, though.

Part of him wants to berate himself for being so petty. But this is a game of cheating and careful pretence. He's doing the right thing. Nobody would judge him for this.

He creeps down the landing, and leans on the banister at the far side of the stairs; there are fewer creaks there and leaning keeps his steps light.

Unlike some of the others, Charlie needs to get the key. He goes to the safe in the hall and stands thoughtfully in front of it. Jim turned the first tumbler. And six, quite apart from being the maximum dice roll and everything he's wanting today, is his favourite number. Jim doesn't admit to things like that; six must be close to his heart for that to have ever happened. Six.

Moran was second. He'll leave that for a second.

Obviously he knows what his own number was.

And the last was Mies, who had taken her time wandering up the hall, trying to watch the code being set. One. The answer has to be one. 'One' has been stuck in her head ever since she sat praying for Whitechapel, and after all, it's what she wants to be; number one, last one standing.

Moran is the only mystery. And it doesn't take long to let the tumbler tick round through all the numbers until suddenly the safe pops open.

Four. Four? As in the four people who were standing in the hallway at the time?

_Note to self_, Charlie thinks. _Re: Moran. Think physically and simply at all bleeding times._

He takes the key, and goes to the living room. He knows he doesn't have much time. Needs to make a decision what to spend it on.

The folder, the black folder. Knowledge, after all, has always been power.

* * *

3 a.m.

Seb lumbers up out of bed. Yawns as loudly as he can, stretches so tall he loses his balance and stumbles. He walks down the landing quietly humming, trots down the stairs with thumping feet and all the creaks, and swings into the kitchen, flicking the lights on. Everyone in the house stirs, and hears him beginning to sing to himself, and then they roll over. The rumble of the kettle relaxes them.

Seb's just having a cup of tea.

The rumble of the kettle also covers the rattle as he crouches down and reaches into the cupboard under the sink. Behind the pipes is a small roll of black cloth; Danielle's spare lockpicks. And under the cover of the kettle he can get down the hall and start the picking and scratching. This is an old house, and the doors here are not beyond his limited skills.

The kettle clicks off as the door swings open.

Charlie left everything pristine. Seb is none the wiser. He wanders in, while everyone thinks he's having a quiet cuppa, and studies the piles of paper money around and about.

The hair over Danielle's pile makes it difficult. He can slide a few notes from the bottom, but that's it, before the hair loses tautness. Charlie has everything set out by denominations and the thin little wads are too precise to touch. Jim's is messy and huge and he robs it carefully blind.

At the last minute, the offshore accounts on the fireplace catch his eye. Who keeps track of what they send away from taxes? Charlie's had bad luck – Grand Caiman is so swollen the flag will hardly stand on top of it. And Jim and Danielle at Switzerland…

Money is power. And Seb was a bit low on money when he went to bed.

* * *

4 a.m.

Jim had set a quiet alarm. Now it wakes him. As ever, there's no groggy moment between sleeping and waking. His eyes open, and there he is, perfectly aware, staring thoughtfully at the ceiling. Now the only question is whether he can be bothered to get up.

Is he going to do this? Really? Get up now, get the spare key out of the top dresser drawer and go down there. Sneak around like a kid on Christmas Eve to see what delightful little presents they've all left him? Who's been thieving, who's been plotting… It could be fun.

Or is he going to be a good boy and leave all that until the morning? Might make tomorrow more interesting, if he has to be figuring it all out. Just taking the game to the next level for himself; that might be really good fun. He's been playing that board for a long time, and playing these same players.

It's all just beginning to feel like Monopoly _used_ to feel. It all began one long weekend, trapped in the Irish countryside with the power out. Two other fellas he didn't like working with and bored, rich (and, yeah, kidnapped) blonde. Closest thing he ever knew to hell. And rather than put the game away from his life and heart forever, lock it in a cupboard somewhere where it could never get him again, Jim took control of hell. He has made it his own.

But it's been going on for a while now. Charlie hasn't been the explosive addition he'd hoped…

No, maybe he ought to leave himself a few surprises.

In the room next door, there's a low rustle. Just Danielle rolling over, but he shuts his eyes too sharply. Laughs at himself. Rolling over's the best idea he's been given. Jim resets his alarm and wriggles up tighter to the pillow.

They're all idiots; _power_ is power. He's already got that. Jim's going back to sleep.

* * *

6.45 a.m.

They're all idiots. All that crap around the door and the key… Silly boys. She'd been smoking at that window on and off all day. Nobody even looked at it before they left the room. So, first thing, when everybody _knows_ she's going out for her morning run anyway, it is _no_ major detour to slip between the rose bushes and slip her favourite fine steel into the undone latch. It moves up easily and she slips inside.

She knows exactly what she's here for, and it won't take long. Dani crosses the room quickly, going to the game box on the sideboard.

Not all of the tokens have been bought. The race car, which _cannot_ be bought and must be won by fair means or foul, is still sitting there. She grabs it swiftly, zips it into the pocket at the back of her waistband. Shuts the window on her way out and goes for her run as usual.

By seven-thirty she's back in the house. The coffee machine is running. Upstairs, there's a shower, and Seb staggering about again. All of them are in different stages of waking up. None of them so much as hears the front door closing behind her. Perfectly normally, she goes to leave her muddy trainers in the cloak room. And, while she's there, she drops the little silver car into Milverton's overcoat pocket.

Because knowledge might be power, or it might be money, or power might be innate. But nothing makes a person feel more powerful than looking at a sworn enemy and seeing his face as if through a gilded gallery frame. And _nothing_ beats having a nice, solid shitstorm up your sleeve for when the afternoon threatens to drag.


End file.
